


Bad Dog

by orphan_account



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Puppy Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-27
Updated: 2010-02-27
Packaged: 2017-10-07 14:22:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in response to a Kink Meme request:  Scotty loses Admiral Archer's prize beagle.  Admiral Archer makes Scotty take the beagle's place.  Puppy play in the Mirror!Verse.</p><p>Interpreted the meme literally.  <i>Very</i> literally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Dog

He was _right_ see, and he can _prove_ it if they give him just a little more bloody time. Yes, maybe it had been a wee bit rash using the admiral’s favorite beagle to prove his transporter beaming theory but he’d apologized hadn’t he? And Archer had practically _dared_ him when he’d called Scotty’s theory a dead end waste of time and ordered him to move on to more productive work.

He tries to explain it to his commander who just shakes his head in disgust. “You went too far this time, Scott. You went against _Archer_, you stupid fuck. What a goddamn waste of an engineer.”

He tries to explain it to the inquiry board but they ride roughshod over his words, grilling him about protocols and violations while the admiral stands to the side and stares at him with cold, vicious eyes.

He tries to explain as the board strips him of his rank, punishment still to be determined. He’s shouting the words as security drags him, struggling, away from the inquiry because if they’d just _listen_ to him for a bloody minute. “_I can get the damn dog back!”_

He’s tossed into detention and maybe panic is trying to worm its way free but it’s buried under his stubborn Scotsman's determination because he can _fix_ this. He just needs access to his research and his computers and maybe he can bribe the guard…he can _fix_ this. He’s Montgomery Scott, he’s the most brilliant engineer the Empire has ever seen and he can _fix_ this.

Two days later, he’s still in his cell and his hyperactive self is ready to bounce off the fucking walls. Attempts at bribery have been met with cold eyed derision and his repeated requests for another hearing, another chance to plead his case, _just one fucking chance_, have been met with threats to “Shut the hell up, prisoner,” followed by brutal blows to ensure the order’s followed.

On the third day, he’s blindfolded, cuffed and then pulled from his cell without ceremony or explanation and shoved into a car. He realizes he’s going to be executed. No, fuck it all, they can’t execute him. He’s too _brilliant_ to be executed. “Think of the good of the Empire,” he argues desperately before a hard cuff finally silences him.

He struggles when he’s pulled out of the car, but he’s not a large man, handy though he is in a brawl. Security easily ignores his efforts as they drag him fuck knows where, to a firing squad or the agony booth, but if they’d just _listen_ to him, he can _fix this. “I can get the admiral’s fucking dog back!”_ he shouts angrily, desperately, as his cuffed hands are pulled up and attached to something overhead, leaving him dangling helplessly, feet barely touching the ground.

“But I’ve already found a replacement for my dog.”

“What? Wait, Admiral? No, I can get your dog, I can…” the brutal slap rocks his head to the side.

“You really don’t know when the fuck to shut up, do you Scott?”

“Admiral, if you’d just _listen_, I can…” the second blow has him seeing stars.

“I take that back. You don’t know _how_ to shut the fuck up. But I’ve got a solution for that. And a solution for the dog you cost me.”

“I can _find_…” he flinches even before the blow rocks him back swinging against his bonds.

And then something is fastened around his neck. He opens his mouth to argue, to make the admiral understand, and then he stops, startled, because the sounds that emerge from his mouth, that…that had to be a mistake. He opens his mouth to try again, to tell the admiral properly and then he stops, licks of fear and panic icing through him because _words aren’t coming out of his mouth._

Barking is.

No. No, no, no_ no no nonononono_ the panicked protest screaming its way out of his lungs translates somewhere in his throat and he hears the high pitched whines and barking yelps that emerge, sounding like a poor dog frightened out of its wits but it’s him, oh fuck, nonono…

Another blow rocks him back, cutting off the yelping. _His_ yelping.

“Bad dog,” Archer’s voice is firm. “I don’t tolerate that kind of behavior in my hounds.”

A soft whine escapes from his painfully bruised jaw but except for that one involuntary sound Scotty stays quiet, more because he can’t stand to hear his voice twisted and warped by whatever they put on him—voice modulator obviously, wouldn’t be that hard to do, says the part of his brain that never stops thinking, analyzing, calculating. The part that’s not freaking _right the fuck out of his bloody fucking skull._

A hand touches his head and he flinches back before he realizes it’s petting his sweat soaked hair.

“Good dog.”

A small involuntary yelp of protest forces its way past his throat at the label. _ Fuck you, not a dog, I’ll fucking kill ye for this Archer_…the hand tightens in warning, and Scotty swallows back the building snarl, the yelp trailing off to another pitiful whine.

The soft shurring sound of a sharp knife and Scotty’s own 'close to hyperventilating' breathing are the only sounds as he feels his clothes cut away, baring him to the admiral and he holds cautiously still, waiting for the knife to slice into his helpless body, waiting for the pain. The tension winds tighter until he feels the last scrap of cloth pulled off of him without further injury, but the tension doesn't release because he's fucking naked in front of the fucking admiral, isn't he? And that can't be fucking good. The cool air hits his naked body, raising goosebumps and he shivers involuntarily.

Impersonal hands explore his body, feeling his chest muscles, his suspended arms, running down his rib cage, like a fucking buyer looking at the horse he’s thinking to buy; or the _dog_. Large, warm calloused hands cup his balls, slide along his dick, run down his thighs and calves, knead his ass, raise his feet up to examine his fucking toes. Ignoring Scotty’s occasional attempts to pull away, the yelps of protest that work their way out of his throat, the admiral continues until he’s examine every fucking part of Scotty.

“You’ll do.”

  


************************************************

 

 

More than the humiliations and the punishments and the pain, it’s not being able to _work_ that drives Scotty out of his fucking mind.

He’s an _engineer_ for fuck’s sake. He was _born_ an engineer. His mind buzzes and sparks with endless ideas and theories and elegant designs and he can’t _do_ anything with them. His hands are encased in fur lined leather mitts that his fingers can’t bend or manipulate. The mitts stay on, day and night, their locks proof against his gnawing teeth, removed only when he’s given his thrice weekly wash. His fingers curl over and over inside the mitts, reaching, always, for an imaginary stylus or PADD to work out the ideas racing through his head.

He can’t even use his _toes_ because they’re encased in boots of similar construction, except they reach up to his knees.

He’s grateful for that at least. The cushioned padding on his knees is made of some artificial material, probably Reflexene, and it protects his knees and gives some artificial bounce as he awkwardly shuffles around on all fours. His knees would be a shredded mass of bruises if he didn’t have the protection since he’s never allowed _off_ of them because he’s a _dog_ and dogs don’t fucking _walk_ on two feet, no of course not and he's got to get out of here, he's a man, he can't be kept like this fuckfuckfuck_fuck_.

The collar is locked on and permanent, never taken off. Three days into his misery, he manages to get outside the admiral’s large house using his teeth and tongue to manipulate the doors and electronic locks. He makes it five meters past the last door when agony erupts, acid and fire crackling along his skin and driving spikes into his bones. The collar’s built-in agonizer reduces him to a shuddering mass of tortured nerves as he lays there, pain filled howls eventually trailing off to shaky whimpers. He’s vaguely aware of the shadow of the admiral standing over him but he’s in too much pain to force his body to crawl and beg. He has no fucking clue how long it is before the admiral finally shuts the collar off and drags him, half-conscious, back into the house.

Every morning, without fail, the admiral inserts a phallus with a tail attached to it into Scotty’s arse, leaving it in for the day, taking it out only for short break periods. He can feel the weight of the tail curling up behind him; can catch a glimpse of it when he cranes his neck, a taunting, constant reminder of his state.

He quickly learns the tail has other uses, curse the fucking bastards who designed it.

The admiral likes to take his dogs out into his large back yard and toss a ball for them, bright red and spongy. The first time the admiral throws it in a long, powerful arc, Scotty stays on his hands and knees, watching Athos and Aramis racing after it like arrows set loose to target.

When Archer looks down at him with an expectant frown, Scotty stares back up at him, rebellious incredulity in his eyes, a growl huffing from his throat.

He waits for the blow—fuck it, he’s _not_ chasing the ball—but the admiral just takes the now slobbered on prize from the triumphant Athos and throws it again. Scotty watches it arc up and then yelps in shock as burning pain erupts in his arse, jolting him forward. Another burst has him jumping forward again, feeling the painful electric discharge given off by the inserted phallus. He spins in a circle, reaching back frantically to grab at the tail and yank it out but his mitted hands slide uselessly off. Another painful jolt, and another, and he looks up at the admiral who’s staring down at him, a glint of amusement in his usually glacier eyes.

“You’d better hurry if you’re going to catch up to them.”

Scotty watches as the admiral pushes a button on his wrist unit and another painful jolt rocks him.

He races after the fucking ball.

 

*******************************************************

 

He has his own titanium food and water bowls with the name ‘Scotty’ etched on them, placed next to those of Athos and Aramis. Hunger quickly overcomes the shame of slurping his food and water and, as the days pass, he learns to lick his bowl with as much enthusiasm as his canine brethren as the admiral watches, giving the occasional pats and strokes along Scotty’s bare back and arse in approval.

And sometimes, in the evenings, they do tricks, he and Athos and Aramis, rewarded with a tossed treat and an approving, "Good dog." Scotty sits and he begs and he rolls on cue, becoming as well trained as the beagles. His last assigned trick is always to stand, which he does by rising up to kneel, hands raised in the air like a proper dog. And this is when the admiral demonstrates the other feature of the tail; not the punishing sharp pain of electricity but gentle, steady jolts and vibrations that torture him in an entirely different way as his dick thickens and fills, until he’s bucking forward involuntarily and the whimpers start to escape and he’s looking at the admiral with pleading eyes. And the admiral will reach out his warm, calloused hands and toy with Scotty, using slow, too light strokes and petting, until Scotty’s giving off a steady, endless stream of begging whimpers, thrusting uncontrollably as the admiral chuckles and finally brings Scotty off to a howling, relentless orgasm.

The admiral dotes on his fucking hounds he does. And as long as Scotty behaves like one of them the admiral dotes on him too. As long as Scotty races for the ball and shakes his arse to get his tail wagging and licks the admiral’s hands and does every shameful thing required of him as a well behaved hound, there’s no agony collar or punishing jolts from his phallus or ruthless hands that spank his exposed backside. He’s fucking pampered is what he fucking is. Humiliated and losing his mind, but fucking pampered.

The science. Jesus, _fuck_, he’s going mad without his science.

 

***************************************************

 

Almost two months after his transformation into a canine, the admiral puts on Scotty’s leash and leads him into the car. Scotty knows better than to protest, although a part of him still cringes at the thought of being seen like this. But it’s no good having such an impressive example of what happens when you fuck with Admiral Archer if it isn’t witnessed, and so Scotty’s gotten used to being leashed and dragged out on neighborhood walks. Far worse are the occasional meetings at the Academy where the Cadets and his former colleagues can see him trotting obediently at Archer’s side, reduced to a household pet.

The car does drop them off at the Academy and Scotty pads docile enough alongside the admiral until he sees the building they’re going into. At the sight of his old stomping grounds he balks instinctively because, fuck, not _Engineering_. He can’t go into his former domain like this. He’d been the _bloody star of the whole bloody department_ before his warp speed fall from grace. He looks up, a distressed, pleading whine escaping from his throat, and the admiral runs a soothing hand through Scotty’s hair before tugging the leash firmly.

“Come, boy.”

Scotty whimpers in misery and follows.It’s worse than he could have imagined. They enter engineering lab seven, designed for use by large groups and it’s filled with his former colleagues and rivals, furiously working at the various electronic boards scattered throughout the room. His freakish entrance is enough to distract even fiercely competing engineers and he receives vicious smirks of amusement from several former rivals, fascinated and appalled side glances from others.

Feeling his Scotsman's pale skin flushing in humiliation, Scotty follows as the admiral stops by a man, young and blonde and dangerous looking. He’s standing apart, dressed in command gold, and studying the activity in the room with a displeased frown. At the admiral’s command to sit, Scotty obediently plants his arse down on his heels, hands straight to the floor between his spread knees as he looks up at the man and, _fuck_. He knows him. _Everyone_ knows him. It’s Captain James T. Kirk, a fucking comet blazing through the ranks of the ‘Fleet, known by all, coveted by many and feared by anyone sane.

Kirk is looking down at him with hard blue eyes. “So this is your new dog I’ve heard so much about.”

A hand reaches down to pat Scotty’s head. “He’s a good boy,” the admiral says with amused pride.

Scotty can’t help the flash of resentment he shoots up at Kirk as the man reaches down to offer a hand, palm down for inspection in front of Scotty’s nose. He swallows down the growl and does what’s expected, sniffing at the hand like a real fucking hound, and then sitting still as Kirk reaches down to pet his hair.

As the pair talk, Scotty’s attention is pulled with inevitable, desperate envy to the boards lit up with formulas and schematics. Every group seems to be working on the same set of problems and the equations pull him into his own head, a zone of concentration as everything else falls away. It looks like they’re trying to solve for a multiple cascade failure in a warship but Cavil and his team are way off track, they’re not even factoring in the right system redundancies the stupid fucks. Lester’s team…oh holy fucking _morons_, they should all be lined up against a wall and… Debear’s team, now, they’re the closest, not because of Debear who’s an ass and incompetent to boot but…her, the tiny Ensign with the short black hair, she’s headed in the right direction with the proof she’s scribbling out and…

“Quiet, Scotty.” He feels a warning tug on his leash and realizes his disgust with the general incompetence in the room is making itself known verbally in a series of huffing growls and he shuts up with an apologetic duck of his head.

“Seems your dog doesn’t approve of the work being done,” Kirk’s voice is rough and amused.

Scotty barely hears the admiral’s answer, his attention already pulled back to the boards like steel to a lodestone. Oh, fucking come _on_, Patterson, even a fucking _numbwit_ like you should realize that the factor of ‘y’ to the…Scotty gives a strangled yelp as the collar pulls his head back, forcing his eyes up to the admiral’s.

“Do we need a behavior lesson, Scotty?” The admiral’s voice is arctic cold and Scotty whimpers and, when his collar’s released, ducks his head down to lick at the admiral’s shoes. He stares miserably at the floor, knowing if he looks up he won’t be able to contain himself, won’t be able to see that now Lester’s team has, oh fucking _Christ_, that’s not even real _math_…with sinking despair he feels his collar yanked back again and finds himself looking into the merciless eyes of the admiral.

And the admiral does not look happy.

 

The admiral is _not_ happy when he drags Scotty out, forcing him to scamper and scramble to keep from being choked by the collar digging into his throat, and Scotty becomes reacquainted with the less pleasant aspects of his phallus during the ride home as the admiral shocks him over and over, ignoring his attempts to beg and whine. When they finally reach the house, Scotty falls more than crawls, half-conscious, out of the car, the continuing painful jolts the only thing keeping him from curling into a whimpering ball on the ground.

Three days later he’s finally begged his way back into the admiral’s good graces and he and Athos and Aramis are snoozing on a rug in the parlor when he blinks sleepily and looks up into the cold, considering blue eyes of Captain James fucking Kirk. He starts to scramble up but he’s stopped by Kirk’s booted foot pushing him over onto his back, coming to rest on Scotty’s collared throat, threatening to cut off his air.

Kirk stares down at him curiously. “So, I was wondering. Is there still a man somewhere in there? Or are you just,” the boot presses the collar into Scotty’s neck as he bats uselessly with mitted paws, “a dog?”

“Because,” Kirk continues conversationally, “I need _men_, not dogs. Specifically, I need engineers who can add up ‘a’ plus ‘b’ and come up with more than ‘c’. Who don’t need an instruction manual just to figure out how to wipe their asses. I thought that might be you. But maybe you’re not an engineer anymore. _Maybe_ you're just a dog.”

The pressure on his neck lets up slightly and Scotty snarls, furious at the insult to the core of who he is. “_Fuck you_, you bloody cocksucking bastard. I’m the best fucking engineer the ‘Fleet has ever seen! If you’re looking for an engineer who knows what he’s doing, how to be _creative_, you’re not going to find it with those…” he trails off, because he’s speaking. _Holy fuck_, he’s fucking _speaking._

“I…I…” The pressure on his throat cuts him off again as he tries to force the words out, just to hear himself speak like a man, like a…

Kirk cocks his head, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “The problem on the board today. What would you have done?”

The pressure lets up enough for Scotty to spit words out angrily, “What _any_ engineer worth their bloody salt would have. I’d have started by flushing out the second core and then, while that was being done I’d have had the field drive pulled and recalibrated. A cascading failure doesn’t happen because of just one problem. And the formulas the engineers were working on didn’t factor in the need to coordinate the recalibration with the fluctuations they’d cause in the tertiary support engines.” He stares up defiantly. "That's just for starters, of course."

Kirk smiles and asks him another question.

Scotty answers every query, every probing question, growing impressed at the intelligence behind Kirk’s too handsome face. The man knows his way around an engine schematic, around the mathematics. And the way Kirk’s _talking_, it's as if he’s considering…hope tries to kindle in Scotty, but hope’s been frozen and dead for so long now, he’s afraid to trust it. To have his freedom held before him and see it snatched away, he really will go mad.When he answers every relentless question to Kirk’s satisfaction, the boot is finally removed from his throat and Kirk crouches next to where Scotty lies, naked and vulnerable in far more ways than just the physical.

There's a challenge in Kirk's blue eyes now; a fierce demand. “If I give you your life back. If I give you a chance to do your work on the Enterprise, what will you give me?”

Scotty’s voice is shaking. “Anything you fucking ask. _Anything_.”

“Will you spy for me?”

“Aye.”

“Will you kill for me?”

“Aye.”

“Your complete loyalty?”

“Fucking _aye_," Scotty assures him desperately. "With a fucking song in my heart. Whatever the fuck you want, just let me work. I’ll keep your lady working in the heart of a nova, _I swear it_.”

After an eternity, Kirk nods. “Fair enough.”

Scotty swallows. “The admiral. He, he hates me. He’ll never let you…”

Kirk cocks his head and frowns like Scotty’s being stupid. “Why the fuck do you think he brought you to Engineering that day, if it wasn’t for me to get a look at you?” He shakes his head and then stands. "Follow me. I need to have a talk with your master."

  
Scotty still doesn’t really believe the admiral will let him go—because obviously the admiral brought Scotty to fucking Engineering to fucking _torture him_, is why he did it—even as he finds himself leashed and led by Kirk into a waiting car, the feeling of the admiral’s eyes heavy on him even as the car is pulling away. When Kirk removes the mitts and boots, pulls the phallus out of Scotty's arse, he still doesn’t quite believe it.

And then Kirk removes the collar, leaving his neck bare for the first time in months and tosses a red uniform into his lap. Engineering red.

“You’ll have trouble with the crew. Everyone knows you’ve been the admiral’s puppy, literally.” Kirk’s not quite wearing a smirk but Scotty doesn’t fucking care because he’s pulling on his uniform with trembling hands, barely resisting the urge to hug it. “You’ll need to make examples of people.”

“Aye, that will nae be a problem.” He’ll pick one or two of the less competent engineers on the ship. Better yet, if he can get Kirk to approve the transfer of some of his rivals. He’ll enjoy making messy examples of those who were foolhardy enough to smile at his temporary misfortune.

When the car stops at ‘Fleet headquarters and he steps out of the car a man, _a man_, Scotty finally starts to believe that he may actually get his life back.

 

***************************************************

 

And he does. He _does_. He has his _life_ back, the life that he’s _meant_ for. He’s the head of engineering on the best ship in the ‘Fleet. The Enterprise is a shining, magnificent lady who deserves Scotty's very best and he gives it to her, lavishing her with meticulous love and affection.

He’s even serving a captain he can actually respect. Kirk is smart and ruthless and could have made a decent engineer, which is the highest praise Scotty can think of.

And Kirk had approved Scotty’s requested transfers. DeBear and Cavil had not spent long on his ship before they'd died screaming, begging for their lives in a most satisfactory manner. And Cathy Potts, the dark-haired lassie who’d shown a shine of promise in Lab Seven had been transferred aboard as well. The girl’s developing into a fine engineer and she’s a bonnie one to bend over a table and fuck when he’s feeling the itch.

It’s been three months since the Enterprise had left its dock and Scotty stands outside of Kirk’s quarters now, mixed emotions in his heart. It’s the third time he's stood here, on the last day of each Terran month that's passed.

The door slides open and Scotty enters the captain’s quarters, seeing Kirk waiting for him. With a nod to the captain, Scotty takes off his cherished uniform, putting the clothes in a neat pile on the table, stripping off his humanity, before kneeling to wait.

Twenty-four hours out of every Terran month is the price Scotty pays for his freedom, the hours recorded and sent to the admiral as a reminder of his ‘beloved hound’. The admiral's price is a small one for being able to tend to Scotty's precious lady, his Enterprise.

He looks up as Kirk approaches and picks up the collar waiting on the table along with the mitts and boots and tail. He waits patiently as Kirk secures the collar, gives a soft bark as Kirk smiles in approval.

“Good dog.”


End file.
